Page 25 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

Dylan

I never thought I’d be standing on a stage in Bellevue Auditorium while a bidding war broke out over a round of mini-golf. Somehow, this is my Friday night.

“Three hundred!” a woman shouts from somewhere near the back.

“Three fifty!” another voice counters.

Darnell swings the golf club like he’s lining up a shot at Augusta, then shades his eyes dramatically as if tracking an imaginary ball. The crowd eats it up.

Bellevue Auditorium was built for lectures and graduation ceremonies, not football players pretending to be professional golfers. Green spotlights sweep over the first few rows while booster-club volunteers hurry along the walls with bid sheets and numbered paddles. The whole event feels half fundraiser, half talent show, with just enough money involved to make everyone take the ridiculousness seriously.

I laugh when someone yells, “Five hundred!”

Darnell gestures toward me with the golf club. “Your turn, Sharpe.”

Not one to be outdone, I break into his ridiculous touchdown dance—knees bouncing, hips shaking in a way that should be humiliating but earns exactly the reaction we want.

“Those are my moves!” Darnell yells, clutching his chest in mock betrayal.

“Six hundred!”

“Seven hundred!”

Darnell and I exchange stunned looks. We’d figured someone might toss fifty bucks our way. Seven hundred feels unreal.

I barely register the noise—the shouting, the clapping, the emcee’s voice echoing off the walls. Then I find Lucy at the back of the crowd. Her arms are wrapped around herself, her posture noticeably stiff. But amusement softens the tension in her face, an expression that says she doesn’t enjoy crowds, yet she’d stand in the middle of one to watch me make a fool of myself.

For one suspended second, the auditorium disappears around us.

“Seven fifty!”

“A thousand dollars!”

The room gasps.

“Going once!” the auctioneer calls. “Going twice! Sold!”

“Guess we’re playing the nicest mini-golf course in the world,” I say to Darnell.

The gavel slams down. Darnell whoops and high-fives me as we step offstage.

We never saw who raised the final paddle.

Marcus strolls past in full pads for his auction entrance, helmet tucked under one arm. When he hits the stage, he starts demonstrating footwork while the emcee hypes the coaching session.

“Nice work,” Coach Littlestone says, clapping us on the back. “That was a hit.”

“Must’ve been your good luck charm,” Darnell says, pulling me into a bear hug.

“Good luck charm?” I arch a brow.

“Library Girl.” He gives me a pointed look. “Or should I say Lucy?”

I scoff as we head toward our table. “You’re imagining things.”

“Sure I am.” He leans back in his chair. “You owe me an explanation.”

“I’ve got breakfast plans tomorrow.”